


Grass

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Introspection, triple-drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-27
Updated: 2008-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>When I posted "Blue Denim", Reshcat asked if grass still smelled the same after all those centuries. This is the result. My thanks to her for the inspiration, encouragement and beta.</p><p>This one is a triple-drabble if one counts the hyphenated words separately, which is not how AO3 does it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Grass

**Author's Note:**

> When I posted "Blue Denim", Reshcat asked if grass still smelled the same after all those centuries. This is the result. My thanks to her for the inspiration, encouragement and beta.
> 
> This one is a triple-drabble if one counts the hyphenated words separately, which is not how AO3 does it.

Methos took a deep breath, lying back in the grass. The air was full of the soft, green smell of grass, warmed from the sun, underlain with a sharpness, bright and tickling. Someone was mowing, not far away: a distant chattering hum. His hands remembered the feel of the scythe-handle, his shoulders and hips the sweeping movement that sent the iron - bronze - copper - wood-and-flint edged blade through the standing stems of grain-grass, field-grass, lawn-grass; his back the judder and his ears the rattle of the push-mower. His fingers brushed at springy leaf blades, remembering clippers and knives and sharp-edged stones cleaving runner from root, tassel from stem; remembered plucking and pulling, weaving and twisting, coming away stained green and sticky with sap.

Persistent grass, resilient grass, grass in startling tufts springing up after a desert downpour. Determined grass poking up through the cracks in the surfaces of the world. Bitter grass and sweet, rough and smooth, long and short; grass that drew blood, grass that staunched wounds, grass on the roof, grass for the floor. Grass that whispered, tossing in the wind, grass that crunched, breaking under hurrying feet, grass that rustled, pillowing a weary, wary head. Silent grass, grey in the moonlight, white with frost, scorched gold and burnt black.

The top-notes changed — the dusty whisper of dry promise that was the short, hardy grass of the steppe, Bermuda grass bitterness, bluegrass spiciness, the headiness of golf-green and croquet-lawn, the hints of heather and sorrel and sage that infused the scent of moor-grass. But the lowest note, the one that said 'I am grass, I cover the earth, blanketing the dead and delighting the living from time immemorial and into time coming' — that note breathed out unaltered.


End file.
